


Miss Me

by FandomNutter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, The Pool Scene, mass email
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3805243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomNutter/pseuds/FandomNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never realized there could be a video</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Me

Tired after a long day of work Lestrade headed towards the door pulling on his coat. He was about to turn off the light to his office when the computer flickered on. The DI frowned and walked over to it. The screen was open to his email and he had over fifty unopened messages, which only deepened his confusion. The last thing he had done had been open his emails. A new one appeared as he was thinking this and he clicked on it.

It contained only five words, “Who the hell are you?”

Brow creased he opened the next one,

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?”

He scrolled down to the first unopened email titled “Miss Me?” It had been sent from his email address, but he hadn't sent it. There was no text, just a video that began playing on its own. It seemed to be fuzzy security footage.

The quality suddenly sharpened and Lestrade could make out two people. One of them dove towards the other and knelt down to unzip his jacket. Lestrade’s eyes widened when a familiar voice said an urgent, “Are you alright?”

The visual cut out and all he heard was a shaky response, “Yeah, yeah, I am fine.”

“Sherlock.” There was a few seconds pause and then a shout, “Sherlock!”

He could hear heavy breathing and Lestrade realized he was leaning far away from the screen, his back cutting into his chair. He sat up as the voice he recognized as John Watson’s breathily said, “Jesus.”

The visual cut back, but is was fuzzy and zoomed in on John’s face as he gasped and said “Oh Christ.”

A few moments later he seemed to muster enough oxygen to say, “Are you okay?”

From out of frame came Sherlock’s voice, “Me? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Fine. That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did; that, um ... you offered to do. That was, um ... good.”

“I’m glad no one saw that.”

“Hmm?”

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool.” And with that the video went dark. Lestrade felt his phone buzz in his pocket. The glowing screen had the name Mycroft Holmes framed by two umbrella emojis.

Lestrade swallowed nervously and answered the call, “Evening, Mr. Holmes.”

“I just received an email from you, Gregory.” The passive voice of the elder Holmes said, “On both of my accounts.”

“Yes?” The DI prompted glancing around and wondering if there was a firing squad outside his window.

“One of which I did give to you. The other, however, is not even known by my brother.”

“I think I was hacked.” Lestrade said into the uncomfortable silence, “I did not send that message.”

“Look at the recipient list.”

The DI clicked on it and it expanded to the entire screen.

“It was sent to every email registered in the UK.” Mycroft continued, “I have reason believe this was a move on Jim Moriarty’s part.”

 

John walked into his flat followed by Sherlock talking about a case. They found Mary sitting on the couch with her eye brows raised staring down at her laptop. When she noticed them she unplugged her earbuds and John heard his own voice.  
 “You ripping my clothes off-” she paused it.

“So when did this happen?” Mary asked cooly and Sherlock looked at John.

“Um...it didn’t.” John said flustered. “It is not what you think.”

 

John woke up the next morning and almost forgot about the email. Then he sat up and realized he was in his old bed at 221b. With a groan he slumped back into the pillow. Mary had said she needed time to ‘think things over.’ That did not sound promising.

He pulled on a bathrobe and made his way down stairs. He had forgotten that mornings at Baker Street were always cold. Filling the kettle with water he noticed soft music coming from Sherlocks room. It was strange, after living with Mary for all these months, it was nice to be back in this old flat.

Waiting for the kettle to boil he sat down in his armchair and switched on the telly.

“A scandalous video surfaced-” He quickly changed the channel only to hear. “-got a call saying Mr. Watson was seen going home with Sherlock-” before turning it off and sighing.

“It upsets you that people think we are together.” Sherlock said from behind him making him jump.

“What- no, not really. Well sort off.” John said quickly. Sherlock’s face was blank, but John had a feeling he was slightly hurt.

“Why?” The detective asked quietly.

“It is embarrassing.”

Sherlock’s face fell and John hastily continued, “Listen, I am married, Sherlock. Married. No one knows that was years ago. Now it looks like I cheated on my wife.”

This did not seem to help and John said, “Even if we were,” his voce lowered to a whisper and he seemed to struggle with his words, “in a relationship. Would you want a video of us well, you know, on the internet for everyone to see?”

“I guess not.” Sherlock mumbled turning from him, “Your kettle is boiling.” before walking to the bathroom and shutting it rather loudly behind him.

 

John had just finished his tea when Sherlock emerged from the steaming bathroom. He stood framed in the door way for a second, a towel wrapped around his waist. The scar on his abdomen stood out against the perfect pale skin of his torso. John could not help but stare at it, it was like seeing a Monet with a knife gash.

He blinked trying to shake the thought from his head, only to have the comparison replaced with the statue of David with a chunk broke off. Sherlock entered the room and John checked his texts for something to do. He dared to glance up once Sherlock opened the fridge door.

His phone fell from his hands and he jumped from his chair. “Who did this to you?” John asked, eyes wide with horror at the long gouging marks across Sherlock’s back.

The detective turned from the fridge holding a jug of milk, “Did what?”

John muttered wordlessly and pointed at him. “Oh, that.” Sherlock said casually putting the milk out on the table and opening the cabinet, “Doesn't matter.”

As his friend reached for a mug the skin on his back shifted and John realized he had walked up to the detective. He ran his finger down the length of one scar and Sherlock tensed momentarily. “Doesn't matter?!” John said, “Sherlock, some one used you like bloody knife sharpener!”

“More a whipping post actually.” Sherlock said walking to the table and sitting down. “It happened in Serbia. The people responsible were taken care of by my brother.”

Not sure how to respond John sat down in the chair next to Sherlock he felt a flutter in his chest when he realized their knees were touching. “Did this happen when---”

Sherlock nodded.

John was at war with himself. He loved Mary, they were married. Yet old affection for the detective was stirring with in him. “One indication Sherlock, that is all I needed. I would have waited for you. I....I was going to ask you the night you jumped.”

“You were?”

“I figured you had deduced it but did not say anything because you did feel the same way.”

“I considered mentioning my feelings to you many times that day,” Sherlock said, “but in the end thought you would be happier not knowing. If I had said it and you reacted negatively I could no longer hope you were interested in me. And if you expressed interest in a relationship it would have made our separation that much harder.”

They suddenly realized they had progressively leaning closer to each other as they spoke, and that their faces only inches apart.

Sherlock cleared his throat suddenly and leaned back in his chair. “If you need to, you are welcome to stay here as long as you like. Though, people might talk.”

John grinned at him, “They do little else."

 

Two men were on the roof of a building across the street from 221B. One was looking through a scope and the other was pacing behind him.

“What are they saying Seb?” The pacing man inquired suddenly. When he did not get a response he walked over to the man with the scope. “Seb?” The sniper’s face flickered with annoyance as he tried to concentrate on his scope. Moriarty’s voice turned into a high whine, “Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeb.”

Moran sighed and muttered, “Respectively sir, it is not easy to tell. Sherlock is no longer facing me.”

“In that case we are wasting our time.” Moriarty said, his voice suddenly business like, “Pack up your gun, we have other work to do.”

“Sir?” Moran asked lowering his rifle and reaching for its case.

“I am resetting the board, Seb. Last time this game ended in a draw. This time both Sherlock and I know each others tactics, so I imagine it will be a proper challenge. Plus, I have the advantage. I have nothing to loose, unlike dear Sherlock, who just keeps getting more.”


End file.
